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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29341107">Share the same space for a minute or two</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adamantia/pseuds/Adamantia'>Adamantia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Neil Hargrove, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Feels, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Billy Hargrove is Bad at Communicating, Billy is Alive, Bittersweet Ending, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Hand Jobs, High School, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nostalgia, Recreational Drug Use, Reunion Sex, Soft Billy Hargrove, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, well softish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:40:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29341107</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adamantia/pseuds/Adamantia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>So much 80s teenage angst. And then 90s angst for good measure.</p><p>I know (canon) Billy Hargrove is an arsehole, but I also want him to live. So, because this is my story, he does just that.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Share the same space for a minute or two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm British, so at 16 or 17 these two characters aren't underage as far as I'm concerned. YMMV.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first day they were paired up he had tried to stare her down, to intimidate her. She had met his gaze, cool and assessing. She was unafraid of him, she was unimpressed by him, and he didn’t know how to deal with that. He had no basis from which to approach this quiet, careful girl, with her wide eyes and her self-possession. She was everything he was not – no bluster, no bravado, no swagger. And yet he knew, on some deep and uncomfortable level, that she was stronger than he was.</p><p>His first approach had been derision. She wasn’t hot, she wasn’t a <em>real woman</em>, she wasn’t a potential conquest. He barely registered the way she looked at first, except in passing, to sneer. She wasn’t unpretty, but she wasn’t blonde, she wasn’t a cheerleader, and she wasn’t the kind of girl that Billy Hargrove looked twice at. She was the kind of girl who passed unnoticed. And yet here she was, sitting on his bed, for what felt like the hundredth time since they had been thrown together in English class. He was good at English (a fact he strove to conceal from the keg-stand world) but she was something else. She had a passion that was infectious, she had opinions, she forced him to counter her, to argue and to think. He hated this at first, hated his intelligence being challenged, hated the awareness that he, Billy Hargrove, the keg king, found himself looking forward to sitting on his bed every Wednesday night with a makeup-free, sweatshirt-wearing, bespectacled girl who chewed her pen and twirled her hair as she concentrated on her book. The first time he heard her laugh, really laugh – at some stupid joke of his – made something unfamiliar and frightening bubble up inside his chest like a fountain. She arrived one night just after he’d had a beating, when he was still raging and swirling inside, and though she looked quizzically at his bruised face, concern in her blue eyes, she didn’t ask, and didn’t pity him. She just dumped her bag of books on the floor and walked over to the record player. They listened to music and passed a joint between themselves, not talking, just <em>being. </em>After she’d left that night, he had lain awake in the darkness, remembering how he’d watched her blow out a curl of smoke as she tapped her fingers along to <em>Immigrant Song</em>, her eyes closed as she listened.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>It was a freezing February night, the Wednesday it happened. She had her legs curled under her, her bottom teeth worrying her lip as she scribbled notes, as unselfconscious as a child. He enjoyed watching her deep in thought, it calmed him. Some buried half-memory of his mom, perhaps, head bent over her sewing, hair a golden halo in the lamplight of their tiny living room back in San Francisco. So long ago, now.</p><p>She was saying something, dragging him back. She was saying “I promised I’d go next week.”</p><p>“You what?”</p><p>“I said, I’m in Indianapolis next week. To help out my aunt, you remember? And to see Tony.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah.” He’d completely forgotten. <em>Who was Tony?</em> “Who’s Tony?”</p><p>“Oh, he’s an old friend from over there.”</p><p>“Yeah?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow, telegraphing a humour that he didn’t really feel. Suddenly the room was cold. Something unnamed and dark pulled at him, something he didn’t want to examine too closely.</p><p>“It was ages ago” she replied, tilting her head to one side. “We dated for a bit, kind of. It never really went anywhere. He’s a good guy, though. He’s very kind.”</p><p>“Jesus, he must have been. I mean, look at you.”</p><p>He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, regretted the reflexive impulse to wound, to lash out, to hurt. He had been abrasive to her, sneering, but never cruel, never like this. But he was spoiling for a fight. Something about the mention of <em>Tony</em> had made him want to hurt her in that moment. He wanted her to call him an asshole and throw her book at him and stop being there in his room with her weed and her passion and her music and her humanity and her frailty and stop being so <em>goddamn fucking nice</em> to him.</p><p>She didn’t do any of these things. She was silent, and as he watched, the hand holding her pen began to tremble, a little at first, then violently, until he could see her whole body shaking. The colour drained from her face as she began to pack her books into her bag. He could see tears starting in her eyes and he was overcome with a sudden wave of nausea, a sickening ache deep in his guts. She climbed off his bed and made for the door, still not looking at him. He was gripped by a sudden certainty that if she left his room he would never see her again like this, would never again be in her quiet company in the strangely companiable solitude of his room, would never listen to her as she read aloud with a voice full of sincerity and passion.</p><p>“Lauren.” It was meant to be a command, a challenge, but it came out desperate, somehow. A hand on her arm, then his body blocking the doorway. He realised, as if for the first time, how small she was, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. Still she would not look at him, wouldn’t speak. Anger seized him as he gripped her chin in his left hand and forced her to tilt it up to face him.</p><p>She looked at him, her eyes huge and brimming with tears. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, all he knew was her eyes. The knowledge that he was the source of the pain he could see reflected back at him made his guts twist, again. Time seemed to stand still as he brushed his thumb over her cheek, feeling the first escaping tears under the whorls of his fingers, the smooth skin under his hand. Her eyes were wide and focused on his own again and it hit him like a freight train and all he was aware of was in that moment was how beautiful she was. How beautiful and how good, and how she was too good for a piece of shit like him and how he was about to lose her forever because he was a fucking idiot.</p><p>“It’s ok,” she said. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I understand. Billy, I…I get it, I…” Her voice trailed off, she took a deep breath as if to steady herself. “I just thought…I thought we were friends, that’s all.” She was trying for lightness as she spoke the last words but they came out pained and quiet. She met his eyes again, smiled; the saddest, loneliest smile he had ever seen. Then she began to pull away from him, her retreating hands light on his forearms like an apology, like goodbye. A wave of panic seized him, something broke inside him, and he was reaching out for her before he was really even aware of it, of how it had happened. Suddenly he was cradling her against his chest and he could feel her, all of her, as she shook in his arms. He held her preciously, as if she were something incredibly fragile and breakable, which of course she was. The urge to protect her from the shitfest that was the rest of the world overwhelmed him and he buried his face in her hair and prayed silently to a god he didn’t believe in that he would never have to let her go.</p><p>“Billy, you don’t have to do this” she stammered desperately, her hands fluttering useless against his chest. Her eyes were wide and fearful and bewildered as he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, so, so gently. He had never been gentle before. He had never wanted to be. Fuck, she was everything, sweet girl, with her rosy lips parting shyly for him and her small trembling hands moving up to frame his face, holding him gently in place. She tasted so utterly familiar and sweet and he was vaguely aware that his own hands were shaking as he held her and deepened the kiss, desperation rising in him. Walking them both backwards to his bed, pulling her down with him, rolling so his body covered hers. <em>Protected</em>. He pressed his lips to her neck, making her cry out and shudder under him. He lifted his head and met her eyes, needing her permission, needing to know she was ok. Gently, reverently, he skated his hands over her breasts, glorying in the gasp he tore from her throat as she pressed against him. He was sure she had never done this before, was sure from her innocent shock and delight as he touched her that he was the first. Guilt rose in him, he wasn’t worthy of her, this innocent girl with her wild eyes and her passion and her kindness and her wicked laugh. He pulled back from her, breathing hard. Her eyes widened with alarm.</p><p>“Sweetheart, you just say the word and I’ll stop. Don’t let me, please…”</p><p>“Please, I… please” she whispered against him, gasping as he traced the soft swell of her breasts under her shirt. “Please don’t stop.” He unbuttoned her shirt with practiced fingers that shook a little because this was nothing like undressing any other girl. He traced the line of her bra over the tops of her breasts, reached to unclasp it, drew it carefully down her arms, and looked up.</p><p>Her skin was like milk, her body all soft curves and sweetness, and she was so very, very beautiful. But her eyes were wary and frightened, her hands moving to cover herself, until he took her wrists and moved her hands away, replacing them with his lips and tongue until she moaned and writhed under him. He could feel himself growing hard in his jeans, uncomfortably tight, and he shifted himself to relieve the pressure. She glanced down and her blush was glorious, so perfect that he found himself smiling against her skin as he kissed her flushed cheek. Her hands moved down to his fly, curious, cautious.</p><p>“You don’t have to… baby, you…”</p><p>“Please let me,” she stammered, “please, let me touch you.”</p><p>It took everything he had not to explode like a useless virgin the second her hand touched his fly. Small, soft hands, unzipping his jeans, carefully working inside, wrapping around his cock and making his whole body jerk and shudder as she began to stroke him, unsure and hesitant, terrified of doing something wrong.</p><p>“Jesus, Lauren, I… fuck.” He needed to touch her.</p><p>He slipped his hand into her jeans, into her underwear, his fingers trembling slightly as they found her, one finger on her clit now, already swollen for him, <em>Jesus</em>, and she whimpered in his arms as he began to stroke her, gently, carefully, slowly. He would give her everything, this girl who looked at him like he mattered, like he was something good. Her hips began to move slowly on the bed under his hands, as warm wetness coated his fingers. He moved lower, gently parting her lips, moving one finger inside her, and she cried out and clenched around him and gripped his wrist with her free hand and sobbed his name and <em>fucking fuck</em> nothing could ever be this good.</p><p>“You ever done this before, baby? Because I’ve though about you, doing this, in your bed.” <em>God</em>, he had, had never really let himself admit it, had tried so hard to focus on the Playboy models in front of him as his mind wandered to her, writhing in ecstasy as she stroked herself. “Jesus, hope you thought of me, hope you touched your sweet pussy thinking of me, fuck…”</p><p>She arched off the bed, wailing his name, tears in her eyes, as she spasmed around his finger, sweet wetness covering his hand, his sheets. He stroked her through it, holding her in his arms as she shook and sobbed, kissing her with a reverence that terrified him even as he did so.</p><p>The moment was so intense that it took him a while to realise that he was still agonisingly hard, harder than he had even been. Her hand was still on his cock and she began to stroke him again, her huge blue eyes locked onto his. Her thumb slid over his swollen head, slick with the moisture that beaded from his slit. Liquid fire seemed to spread up his spine and he covered her hand in his, stilling her movements.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Terror in her eyes, a tremor in her voice.</p><p>“Fuck, baby, nothing’s wrong.” He could scarcely speak, he was so focussed on maintaining his rapidly diminishing control. You are fucking incredible, and if you keep doing that I am going to come all over your hand like a fucking idiot.”</p><p>“I want you to. I want to give this to you.” The soft slide of her hand again, insistent this time.</p><p>Her eyes were so earnest and so beautiful and so, so wide and it was all he could do to bury his hands in her hair and pull her close and kiss her desperately before the most intense orgasm of his life ripped up his spine and he was breaking, breaking in her arms, kissing her and shaking and gripping her hard enough to bruise as stars blurred his vison and the scent and feel of her overwhelmed him. He had never known it could be like this, had never known, <em>fuck</em>.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>He hadn’t been back to Hawkins in, <em>God</em>, 15 years or thereabouts. Had had no good reason to go back. Steve’s funeral was a good enough reason. <em>Jesus fuck, he’d only been 32 fucking years old</em>.</p><p>Hawkins in February 1998 was virtually indistinguishable from Hawkins in February 1983. Different cars, different hair, different teenage angst. But otherwise the same.</p><p>He hadn’t expected to see her. Had hoped. But hadn’t expected. And suddenly, there she was.</p><p>She was different and exactly the same all at once. Her body a little rounder, a woman’s body, not a girl’s. The same blue eyes, a few laughter lines around them, a little less innocence. She was 31 years old, as was he. He’d thought about her many times since they’d lost touch, thought about that cold night in his bedroom, a sweet oasis in the hell of his teenage years. He’d been living in New York since college, went there for graduate school and never looked back. <em>William Hargrove, doctor of philosophy.</em> <em>Fucking fuck</em>.  </p><p>She came over to him and hugged him like it had been yesterday, her smile the same, her scent the same, and <em>fuck</em>, he was lost.</p><p>“Billy! My God, how are you? It’s so good to see you! I just this minute got in from the airport, I’m afraid I’m a state.”</p><p>They went for indifferent coffee and cake at one of the small, trendy-ish cafes that had opened since Hawkins joined the rest of the world in the 1990s. <em>She was living in San Francisco now, since her divorce. She came to New York occasionally for work, how had they never run into each other? They must keep in touch and make it happen next time she was there. Did he ever come back to Cali?</em></p><p>He watched her as she chatted, lost in her voice, in her eyes, in the movement of her hands as she twirled her cake fork to emphasise her points. When they stood to leave, he touched her arm lightly and something passed between them like an electrical current.</p><p>
  <em>Unfinished business.</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>By the time they got to the motel room he was frantic. He slammed the door, pushed her against it and pulled her into a kiss so pent-up, so achingly desperate and passionate that they both pulled away gasping when it was over, eyes searching each other.</p><p>“I need you, I need us to… I need… Billy, Jesus Christ, I…”</p><p>She was sobbing now, her shaking hands pulling at his shirt, as he pulled up her skirt and pressed his fingers into her and <em>Jesus fucking Christ</em> it felt like coming home, he would have known her anywhere, in the dark, another twenty years hence, <em>fuck</em>, he knew her body like he knew his own.</p><p>“Fuck me, please, fuck me”</p><p>They had never done <em>that</em>. He hadn’t wanted to pressure her, and then before they both knew it, high school was over and their lives diverged. A piece of himself always missing, so many years, so much distance. The want that tore through him made him gasp, almost in physical pain, as he unzipped his jeans and slid into the sweet willing wetness of her body.</p><p>He held her face in his hands as he moved inside he, his eyes never leaving hers. He could hardly breathe for the wonder of it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>Early flight the next day. Back to reality. Dull mist over the runway a reflection of his own feelings. <em>Pathetic fallacy</em>, she chided him in his head.</p><p>A handwritten note in his pocket, precious thing, scrap of hope. A number.</p><p>Her last words as she left.</p><p>
  <em>I’ll be in New York in May. Call me?</em>
</p>
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